


To Drink of Spiced Wine

by Euterpein



Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Biting, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Bruises, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Demonic Powers, Explicit Consent, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Post-Canon, Rough Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: Aziraphale asks to be Tempted; they both get a little more than they bargained for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 12 Days of Blasphemy [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094198
Comments: 6
Kudos: 85
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020, Top Aziraphale Recs





	To Drink of Spiced Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7 Of the 12 Days of Blasphemy challenge!
> 
> Full Prompt: “I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.”

“You’re really sure about this, angel?” 

Crowley’s voice was laced with anxiety. It had been since Aziraphale had first suggested this, bold on wine and drunk on love, and they had talked about it. He had been hesitant, but not hesitant enough not to have the conversation.

Aziraphale held in a small, exasperated sigh. He gathered Crowley’s thin, delicate hands in his own and looked right into his lover’s eyes, steady and solid. “I’m sure, Crowley. We’ve been over it a hundred times. I know what to expect; you’ve been very thorough. I want it. I want _you_.”

“You know you have me, angel,” Crowley mumbled, a little hesitantly, still grappling with expressing himself so openly. “And you know it’s not--you don’t _have_ to, you know. Even under the influence. It’s not a _compulsion_ , it’s a...it’s a...” 

“It’s a Temptation.” Aziraphale leaned over to plant a kiss directly underneath each of Crowley’s eyes, a gesture that never failed to distract him. “I know, Crowley. If I don’t actually want it I can walk away. And I know that you might not, but _I_ trust you to stop me if things go sideways. I’m very sure, as long as it’s something you want.”

Crowley swallowed. There was still some uncertainty in his expression, but Azriaphale’s assurances seem to have gone some way towards putting his fears to bed. “I do,” he admitted, quietly, “I have for...a long time. Too long.”

“I have too.” Aziraphale gave him a soft smile again, letting it widen as Crowley gave him a tentative quirk of the lips back. “And isn’t that what retirement is all about? Getting to do the things you always wanted but never could?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but the smile was persistent. “Pretty sure that usually means buying expensive cars you won’t drive and traveling cross-country in a caravan, angel. Not...this.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said happily, letting one of his hands slip from the small of Crowley’s back down over the slight swell of his arse, “To each their own, then.”

“To each their own,” Crowley repeated with another exasperated eyeroll, and leaned down to kiss him again.

\-----------------------

The jingle of the bell above the door was oddly loud in the after-hours hush of the bookshop. 

Aziraphale looked up from the manuscript he’d been pouring over for the better part of the evening, peering curiously into the darkness beyond the circle of lamplight at his desk. “Hello?” he called, hesitantly. It was most definitely after hours, but that didn’t mean much--it wouldn’t be the first time he’d left the door unlocked on accident and dealt with some desperate or unsavoury character wandering in during the early hours of the morning.

 _“Hello, angel_.” 

Aziraphale shivered. The voice-- _Crowley’s_ voice, he could tell--had come from the front of the bookshop, and had been...different. It was quiet, barely above a whisper, and yet it had felt almost _tangible_ , the ghost of a caress against his skin.

“Crowley?” he said. He stood from his desk, nearly tripping over himself in the process. His feet felt heavy, somehow, clumsier than normal. “Crowley, what are you--why are you here?” He puttered along the bookshop’s wooden floor and through the stacks towards the front.

What he found made him stop cold.

Crowley was standing in the middle of the bookshop proper, spinning Aziraphale’s ancient globe idly with the tip of one long, tapered finger. He was dressed in his usual manner, or the one he’d favoured a variation of for the last few decades: the tight black trousers, yes, and a t-shirt whose hemline dipped down so low that he could feast his eyes on the sharp lines of Crowley’s clavicles. He’d traded out his usual silver scarf for a long necklace of molten gold, its delicate chain following the dip of his throat and flowing over the shirt, drawing Aziraphale’s eyes ever downwards. It was matched by delicate gold bands at Crowley’s wrists, at his ears.

Aziraphale took all of this in breathlessly for a few moments, finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from the striking figure before him. Remembering himself, he started, “A-and to what do I owe the honour of your company tonight, my--” His eyes met Crowley’s, and the words died in his throat.

Crowley’s eyes had always been charming-- _captivating_ , he might even have admitted, but this was something else entirely. Crowley was staring at him, unblinking, and his yellow eyes seemed almost to glow in the dim light spilling through the windows from the street.

“I wanted to see you, angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale shivered again. This close, the strange sensation he’d felt earlier was even stronger. He didn’t seem to be surprised by Aziraphale’s odd behaviour. “I thought I’d...drop by.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale managed, though even that choked-off word took a nearly herculean amount of effort on his part. It wasn’t really sufficient as an answer to Crowley’s statement, but again Crowley looked unsurprised. 

Crowley took a step towards him, moving around the globe with a smooth swing of his hips that Aziraphale felt deep in his very bones. He found that his throat felt terribly dry all of a sudden. 

“Hard at work again, I see,” Crowley nodded towards the desk, at the little bubble of light and safety Aziraphale had left behind. He was standing closer, now. Close enough to reach out and touch.

Aziraphale dug his nails into his palms, and gave a nod. “New manuscript,” he said, his voice sounding scratchy and deep to his own hears, “From a-an Abbey up north.”

“Hmm.” Crowley hummed in mild acknowledgement, stepping ever closer. He stopped when he reached the spot where Aziraphale stood. His eyes tracked down Aziraphale’s throat, over his chest, down his arms to where Azirapahle was gripping at his own skin. “You work too much, you know, angel. You should... _relax_ more.” His voice dripped with honey, a sweet-sharp whisper, and Aziraphale barely suppressed a whimper. Crowley’s perfume washed over him, a delicate and spicy musk.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he managed, though he was practically panting. He wanted so _desperately_ to reach out, to grab Crowley and crowd him up against the nearest bookshelf, to bite and scratch and bury himself so deep in him that his twice-damned perfume would never leave his nose. He wasn’t sure what had come over him--he’d always wanted Crowley, sure, had always _craved_ him, but never had these urges felt to close to the surface as they were now.

Crowley seemed determined not to help his self-control. He reached a hand up to trace the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, scraping lightly through the shadow of a beard Aziraphale had been indulging in since his retirement from Heaven’s rather stringent dress code. “Seems a shame, you know,” Crowley mused, letting his finger linger on Aziraphale’s skin, “You, pouring over that desk day and night. You’re a Heavenly warrior, after all. All that strength,” his hand dropped down to the front of Aziraphale’s shirt, toying too idly at the fitting of a button, “all that... _power_ might be better put to use elsewhere, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale snapped.

In the space of a single heartbeat he had Crowley’s wrists pinned above him, his full weight pressing Crowley into the shelves behind him. He breathed for a moment, trying to catch up to the roller coaster of sensations and emotions rushing through him, but Crowley didn’t let him dwell for long.

“I see you agree with me, then.” He looked like the cat that had got the cream, smug and satisfied at Aziraphale’s lapse of control. 

“I’m--sorry,” Aziraphale said, though he was apparently unable to loosen his own grip. He was mortified, truly _mortified,_ that this was happening. He had wanted this for so long, and now that it was within his grasp he found he was entirely unable to stop himself from _taking_ it. 

Crowley’s grin widened. “Don’t be.” He leaned down until his lips were a fraction of an inch from Aziraphale’s own, his warm breath tickling at the fine hairs on Aziraphale’s skin. “I can feel you, angel. That _holy sword_ you’ve got pressing into my thigh. I can taste your lussst...” 

He couldn’t have said who tipped the scales; which of them gave in first and dove forward to bring their lips together. Aziraphale rather suspected it was himself, but he wasn’t able to dwell on the shame of it long. Crowley was sweet ambrosia in his mouth, his tongue a warm weight against his own. He yielded easily as Aziraphale crowded him even more, dominating the kiss, unable to get close enough. 

Aziraphale felt as though he were burning up. He had a terrible fever within him and every touch from Crowley was the stoke of a bellows, fanning the flame higher until he thought he might simply combust. 

“Yessssssss.” Crowley pulled away from the kiss and threw his head back, letting Aziraphale attack the long column of his throat with a ravenous hunger that was sure to leave bruises there the next day. “That’s right, angel, _take_ me...”

Aziraphale growled low in his throat. He didn’t need to be told twice. With a thought the world had shifted around them and Crowley fell backwards on the bed, groaning as Aziraphale pinned him to the bed before he could even get his bearings. 

“Not going to go slow,” Aziraphale warned between vicious kisses to Crowley’s neck, his chest. “Can’t. You’re so _delicious_ , darling, I can’t--I need--”

“Do it, angel.” Crowley shifted beneath him, a sinuous motion that made their cocks rub together, making them both moan. “Go on, give it to me. You know you want to...” 

Aziraphale _did_ want to. Patience was beyond him at the moment, so he clicked his fingers again, grinning a little wildly when Crowley gasped beneath him. He guided himself to Crowley’s entrance, holding himself back only long enough to assure himself that he was slick and ready before pushing slowly inside.

He might have said that being inside Crowley’s body was Heaven, if he hadn’t been there. It was certainly _paradise_ , whatever that meant, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head with pleasure as he made short, abortive little thrusts until he had seated himself firmly within.

Crowley finally seemed to be nearly as affected as Aziraphale had been from the beginning. His cheeks were nearly as deep a crimson as his hair, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open with his own ecstasy. Aziraphale took the liberty of attacking his throat again as he started moving, offering no rest or breathing room for either of them. 

He could feel himself rapidly losing cohesion; his self-control, which had been tenuous from the moment he’d heard Crowley’s voice drifting through the bookshelves, was at its most frayed end, and he was afraid that it could snap at any moment. His hips seemed to be moving of their own accord, thrusting down into Crowley with a violence he had never really imagined himself capable of. Not that Crowley seemed to mind. His rapturous cries of “Yes, angel, _yes_ \--!” were echoing to the point that they must have been audible from the street below.

The thought only made him thrust harder. 

He swiftly lost track of how long they stayed like that, the frenzy of their coupling making time all but meaningless as it stretched and broke around them. It might have been minutes and might have been long hours for all either of them were aware. Crowley moaned and writhed and twisted in his grip, the heels of his feet digging gloriously into the small of Aziraphale’s back as he encouraged him to go ever faster, take him ever harder. 

Aziraphale’s muscles burned and his breath came out harsh in the close air of his bedroom. The whole world had narrowed down to just this moment, to the body beneath him and the endless, consuming void of desire to _have_ , to _take_ , to keep going until he had been sated and satisfied.

Finally, _finally_ , Crowley’s body stiffened beneath his own. His inner walls clamped down on Aziraphale _hard_ and they both moaned. 

“Don’t you dare stop--don’t-- _angel_!” Crowley cried, his back arching violently upwards against Aziraphale’s weight as he spilled over himself in the space between them. Aziraphale bit at his mouth as he chased the sensation, working Crowley through his own orgasm and rolling vigorously over into his own, biting down hard into the flesh of Crowley’s shoulder as his thrusts grew ever more erratic and finally stopped, holding himself flush to Crowley’s body as he spilled himself inside.

\-----------------

“Are you sure I didn’t hurt you, love?” Aziraphale asked, apprehensively. It was his turn to be anxious, it seemed, in the aftermath of their scene. 

Crowley stirred lazily, stretching with languid slowness under the warm water of their clawfoot tub. He had bruises blooming along the stretch of his pale skin already. “You did,” he drawled, grinning up at Aziraphale, “and I loved every second of it, angel. Pretty sure half the neighbourhood could confirm that at this point.” He tilted his head towards Aziraphale, transparent pleading look in his eyes.

Aziraphale huffed a haughty acknowledgement at that, giving in easily to Crowley’s unspoken request for Aziraphale to run his fingers through his short hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. Crowley melted at the touch, as boneless and satisfied as a cat in a patch of sun. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, then,” Aziraphale went on. “I’ll admit it was a bit more-- _overwhelming_ \--than I expected it to be. I felt as though if I didn’t get my hands on you that _second_ I might combust. If I hadn’t known what was happening I would have been frightened at myself, I think.”

“I did give you more of it than I would’ve done a human,” Crowley admitted, letting his eyes droop closed at Aziraphale’s gentle attentions. “Usually ‘s more...subtle.” 

“I should hope so.”

Crowley opened one eye a fraction to peer up at Aziraphale, lazily curious. “And wha’ ‘bout you, angel?”

“What about me?” Aziraphale suppressed the urge to lean down and press a kiss to the tip of Crowley’s nose; he was just so _cute_ like this, blissed out and sluggish, but he’d never forgive the injury to his demonly pride.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Aziraphale allowed himself a moment of surprise. “I should have thought that was quite clear, my love. I wasn’t exactly...quiet about it either.”

“Yeah, but ‘s nice to hear you say it.”

Aziraphale could resist temptation no longer. He leaned down and laid a gentle kiss to the very tip of Crowley’s nose. It earned him a half-hearted hiss in retaliation, but it was a mark of just how worn out Crowley was that a hiss was all he could muster up.

“I enjoyed myself very much,” Aziraphale admitted, with feeling. “Thank you, Crowley. I know you were nervous about this, using a demon’s ability on me. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Crowley’s expression softened for a few solid moments, then turned sour. “Shut up and carry me to bed,” he said, all false grumpiness.

“With pleasure, my love,” Aziraphale answered, smiling, and stood to take Crowley in his arms once again. 


End file.
